Two Steps
by kickstergal
Summary: They're both damaged, both lonely and the fact they take the time to play together in their own little sandbox has repercussions she doesn't acknowledge, doesn't think about, even when he manages to make her blush. Oneshot, slight Jisbon


AUTHOR'S NOTE: My first Mentalist fanfic! Please be kind- I'm just a fledgling! I really appreciate all feedback given! Lots of exclamation marks! I think this is more an attempt to get my head around the relationship rather than a Story, story. Hope you like! (There goes another one.)

**Gracie127** is the reason I took an interest in The Mentalist and got hooked on Jisbon- therefore I'm officially blaming her for my Youtube clip watching increasing 150 percent XD.

DISCLAIMER: Who, me? Nope, just borrowed them for a while, honest.

She didn't know what to make of him, when he first walked in.

She didn't ask for him; had him thrust upon her when she was finally gaining some recognition as a leader rather than as a star cop. She'd worked her ass off to feel she'd earned her place, made her mark, and every time Patrick Jane said good morning to her for three months she felt like she was being punished.

"_Good Morning, Teresa."_

"_Lisbon."_

_He nodded. "Authorative. Excellent." He turned to her team. "She feels threatened, so she wants me to understand who's boss."_

_She flicked him a glance, supremely unconcerned. "My team already understand who's boss."_

_He nodded again. "Meaning I'm not part of your team. Something no doubt I would lie awake at night worrying about if I actually cared."_

_She glanced at him, turned to back to her team. "Alright guys, here's how this raid is going to go down-"_

_Later, when her raid had been executed to perfection and the perp had still walked free, he'd stopped by her office door._

"_Goodnight. Lisbon."_

_She muttered something back and frowned after him as he left, trying to figure out why he'd chosen a failed case to acknowledge her leadership._

He made sarcastic remarks, pushed her, constantly, challenging her decisions and the methods she'd honed late at night while he was off being some psychic celebrity. She pushed back, battling against his unique logic and unsettling insights until she realised he was closing cases with his methods; was catching the bad guys, and made the effort to keep him contained rather than caged.

He noticed. His approach to cases was still aggravating, abrasive and often left her traipsing after him, fuming with her brush and shovel, but he noticed. The war between them became a routine battle, a running debate that still left her infuriated, but more often than not strangely and worryingly, entertained.

"_You can't say that."_

"_Why not. It's the truth." He frowned at her from her couch, where he'd taken to lying on nights she had paperwork to the eyeballs, purely, she suspected, to figure out how to drive her nuts._

"_You can't call the Deputy Commissioner a pompous jackass who couldn't see his own self righteousness if it came after him with a three prong pitchfork."_

_He just blinked at her, solemnly. "Should I not have mentioned the pitchfork?"_

_She just rolled her eyes and went back to her paperwork, hearing his quiet laugh and knowing he'd caught the quirk of her lips._

She can tell more often now when he lies to her. She can't say how; can't turn it on at will, which frustrates her because he often slips under her radar when she has the most powerful need to kick his ass. But she knows, and she also knows it unnerves him when she can pinpoint exactly what he's up to. She's discovered she has developed a taste for surprising him; it delights her, inordinately.

It makes something in her light up when she sees the shock and (rarer, but still there) admiration flit across his face, which has to be the reason she spends such a large portion of her time trying to figure the man out.

"_So, you really thought that man deserve to die?" She kept her voice casual, knowing he knew her tells. Knowing he would only give her as much as he rationed out, no more._

_Jane looked directly at her, and she stared back, noting he'd blanked his face._

"_Of course. He killed another human being. A life for a life. Seems fair, doesn't it?"_

"_He should have gone to jail, been punished within the bounds of the law. Vengeance does not solve anything. It only...takes. It's not the right solution, Jane." She heard the pleading tone her voice had developed and cursed herself silently._

_He just looked at her, and she could see him weighing her words on his mental scale. He laughed suddenly, mockingly, and against her will she flinched._

_He immediately gave her that smile that was just as much a mask as his blank face._

"_Come on, Lisbon. You know me."_

_She nodded, just as careful to keep her voice light. "Sometimes."_

_She watched him take a steady breath and shrugged a shoulder to indicate the discussion was over._

_She busied herself with clearing their mugs, her gut telling her pretty much the same thing as it would about a wounded animal: don't poke._

She knows she needs to save him; he won't save himself. He will save her, though, to the detriment of his own vendetta.

She knows things that strike too close to home make him shut down; he can't accept thanks, which is why they don't talk about the night he saved her, and he can't accept a friend, which is why they are careful never to define this thing that evolving between them.

She still replays that night in her head, still takes the useless steps down the road they might have taken had Red John's 'friend' survived.

_Later that night, she found him at the cafe across the road from the precinct, staring into a cup he was holding._

_He didn't acknowledge her as she slid into the booth, didn't falter in stirring the still-full cup._

"_Jane." She made it a question, a gentle command in one, and she saw something in his eyes flicker, although he didn't stop circling the bottom of the mug with his spoon._

"_Jane. It will be okay. We will find Red John, this is just a temporary setback."_

_When he didn't answer, she placed her hand gently on top of his._

_He looked at her, and she was relieved to see he was still there. Fragile, absolutely, but still looking at her with the distant affection she'd grown used to._

"_This tea is awful."_

_She nodded, gently slid it away down the table. He didn't let go of her hand, so she tightened her grip a little. "That's because it's coffee."_

_He just shook his head, took a breath, then gently disentangled his hands. "Would you care for some tea, Agent Lisbon?"_

_She smiled, prepared to keep the man she didn't call a friend company for the night. _

"_Sure. As long as you're buying."_

She used to think a man so filled with self-loathing had nothing to give- now she sees he can give within his self-imposed and varied limits; it's the receiving that makes him shut down. She understands he doesn't think he deserves support, even from someone as damaged as her.

She works on him, though; she allows him to sleep on her couch and mock her lunch choices and quiz her on her motives for going to the mailroom twice in one day. She allows him to invade the boundaries of her office and her mental guard rails, although they both understand there is a limit to how far she will allow him to go.

She suspects he's working on her too, from his pony stunts and paper frogs and trust falls and the way he looks at her, sometimes, when he thinks she thinks he has fallen asleep during their late night paperwork/ Spanish Inquisition sessions.

"_Lisbon."_

_She didn't look up._

"_Lisbon."_

_She didn't look up, hunched further over the desk. "What."_

"_You know, the polite thing to do would be to say, yes, dear Jane?"_

_She squinted at him, punchy from the late hour and lack of caffeine. "Bite me."_

"_Say that often enough and I just might." He warned her, wagging a finger, flat on his back on her couch. _

_She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "What, Jane?"_

"_You forgot the dear." He pointed out._

_She glared at him. "I repeat. Bite me. Do you know how much paperwork-"_

_She broke off as he got smoothly off the couch and swung around the desk, tugging her chair around to face him and leaning in, his hands on her arm rests so she had no option but to stare up at him._

"_What was that you just asked me to do?" He murmured, watching her._

_She felt her face heating up as she pressed herself backward, her fingers curling tight in her lap. "I-" She cleared her throat. "I, uh, asked what you wanted." He just raised a brow, and she pressed her lips together. He raised the other brow and she huffed out an exasperated breath. "Dear."_

_He grinned at her, and damned if she could stop her lips twitching in response._

They're both damaged, both lonely and the fact they take the time to play together in their own little sandbox has repercussions she doesn't acknowledge, doesn't think about, even when he manages to make her blush.

She feels he's standing on a precipice and that's why he constantly advances, retreats, advances, until she's so used to his withdrawals she doesn't comment when he makes a callous remark, and she doesn't comment when he makes a kind one later, to make up for it.

"_It's two steps forward, one step back." She states flatly, as he harangues her about progress, or, more specifically, lack of it on the Red John case._

_He pauses, watching her, then nods quickly, and she has the feeling he's switched mental tracks on her. He catches the thought on her face and lifts a shoulder in acknowledgement, even if he doesn't enlighten her. "I know."_


End file.
